Hope's Flickering Flame
by ShadowObsessor01
Summary: Drabbles Ahoy! A little piece of a trilogy I'm currently writing. Not sure if it will end up in the final cut or maybe an edited version but I figured might as well see what everyone thinks. The Trilogy will be a series of xovers so it's going to get a little mad 'round here. Try to see where I am going with it. R&R guesses will get more snippets of what I have so far. Much Love!
1. Before and After

I Don't own Marvel or Disney/ABC. Wish I did, but I don't! I do own copies of the movies and all current seasons save for season five (Waiting to split the cost with my sister and fellow fan/long-suffering sounding board. Seriously, her and a good friend of mine we will call Trinity are absolutely marvelous souls to listen to me rant and talk out my mad ideas for three or four hours straight. It has been timed, trust me. It is thanks to these two if this story turns out any good so give them props in your reviews! If you like it and the idea. If not...keep your flames on me. I actually need the suntan not them. Writers are practically Word Vampires (Wompires? Sounds Star Wars) so we don't get much sun.) OKay rant/kudos/legal dues over and done with, enjoy!

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The boys grow together from scrappy boys to scrawny pre-teens to skinny Steve and trim Bucky, inseparable from the other, with quickly gaining reputations of their own. Steve Rogers, scrawny-punk-who-keeps- _getting-back-_ _ **up**_ -with-pride-bigger-than-himself and Bucky Barnes, won't-pick-the-fights-but-he-sure-will- _ **end**_ -them. That is the reputation the idiots in Brooklyn have given the boys. Bucky and Steve have much different reputations for each other. Steve is "Punk" and "Trouble-maker" while Bucky is "Mama Bear" and "Jerk". Reputations are funny affairs. Based on the knowledge available to those who give them, a person's reputation can be spot on to the character and nature of said person or wildly off-mark.

In future time, the friendship of Steven Rogers and Bucky Barnes would gain a reputation of being forged in steel. Never was one parted far from the other and heaven help the villains that tried. They were fighters together, survivors apart. The world would see Captain America as the calm level-headed man with a plan while his SIC Sergeant Barnes is the epitome of passionate life and goofball antics; reality is that Steve Rogers is fire and passion and an inferno of roiling emotion while Bucky Barnes is ice and razor wit and a blizzard of protective instincts. Only what is expected is searched for and the close-minded only find what they expect. History is written by the victors and no one wants to hear the tales of the Captain's and the Sergeant's battles with each other, often over Bucky reprimanding Steve for rushing head first into a no-win battle _again -YOU ARE NOT INDESTRUCTABLE, STEVE! QUIT ACTING LIKE YOU ARE! -_ though the Commandos pass on those looked over tales for the humor they provide. Larger than life Captain America cowering behind his fancy shield while his slightly shorter best friend reams him a new one with Bucky's favored sniper rifle at the ready in wildly gesticulating hands. After hard missions, The Howling Commandos could always rely on their Captain and SIC to lighten the mood. This duo's friendship, however legendary, was also never without its own pitfalls.

Steve never shares with the Commandos just how far he knows Bucky will go – _has gone_ \- to keep Steve safe. It's a terrifying memory.

Terrifying in its truth.

Terrifying in that it is _Bucky_.

What Steve is privileged – _and he uses that word in the loosest definition in this case_ – to witness is a side of his best friend that Mrs. Barnes never knew of, that the US Army barely saw the outer edges of, that the fellow prisoners of Azzano caught glimpses directed at HYDRA's guards, and that Steve wishes he. Was. Still. IGNORANT. _Ignorance is truly bliss._ It will be over seventy years later before Steve dwells on this particular characteristic of Bucky and a few years after that in change before the reason behind this part of Bucky can be explained.

The Howling Commandos never know about Bucky's childhood bad days, though they witness a fair few during their time together as a team during the war. When the memories of Azzano and the prison camp become too much, Bucky could be found curled against Steve's side wherever the Commandos have been deployed, stifling sobs into the too broad shoulder and listening to Steve hum Amazing Grace. The old hymn was Bucky's favorite and one of the few things that could calm him quicker than a mere cuddle against someone Bucky deemed _safe_. Eventually as time passed and the team grew closer, their SIC would come to the other Commandos for comfort often enough that they all knew Bucky's song by heart. Dernier even learned it in French so he could sing Bucky to sleep in accented tenor. The Commandos never teased Bucky or Steve, never questioned where the young men's friendship really lay because as time marched on, the other Commandos took comfort in the odd routine. Their Captain and SIC had their backs always and there was no one else the Commandos wanted to lead them into battle.

Contrary-wise, the Avengers learn of Bucky's bad days and worse days through Steve. They question after Steve is released from the hospital because _Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are best friends so why is Bucky trying to kill Steve, how is Bucky even still alive?_ Steve doesn't know much beyond HYDRA is in SHEILD and what he can imagine has been done to Bucky. So instead he shares about the Bucky _before_ and what he sees in this Bucky _after._

Before: Bucky hated anything constricting around his neck. Ties were tolerable to an extent, but never scarves. Mrs. Barnes worried constantly during the freezing Brooklyn winters when Bucky would run around without a scarf to keep the chill from his skin. The blood-curdling panic attack the first winter Jimmy lived as a Barnes when Mrs. Barnes tried to put a woolen scarf around his neck dissuaded any future attempts.

Before: Bucky was a magician with anything fabric. Steve often watched Bucky make, hem, or patch clothes for a little extra cash or favors down the road. The Barnes and Rogers families may not have had much, but Bucky made sure they never lacked when it came to clothes.

Before: Bucky was a suave talker; more than once he had been able to talk the prices down to pennies when money was tight and they needed medicine or food.

Before: Bucky was a master marksman. Able to make impossible shots for normal men and knives were practically an extension of his body. _Only after the Fall would Steve learn that Bucky's skills frightened his teachers to a certain degree; it was too natural to not be something he already practiced with on a semi-daily basis. Steve kept quiet about the dark knowledge he held in regards to his best friend's preternatural ability in finding the kill points on a target with anything sharp enough to conceivably use as a weapon. Somethings were better left unknown in the black of night._

Before: Bucky may have hated the war and having to kill, but he was observant to a paranoid degree. Steve was the artist of the two but Bucky noticed details in people and the surroundings that Steve often overlooked.

Before: Bucky couldn't stand silence outside the zone he created when providing sniper cover for the Commandos. The constant humming Bucky did under his breath became almost a better warning system than Steve's own super-hearing. If Bucky fell silent and the Commandos weren't a) in the middle of a battle or b) camped for the night, then he had picked up something everyone else had missed.

Before: _Bucky wouldn't hesitate to kill to protect his family._

After: The Winter Soldier was a master assassin. Powerful physically, flawless skill and form. Knives were an extension of his arm. A master marksman.

After: The Winter Soldier wore a uniform that appeared molded to his body. His neck was covered; his mouth muzzled; eyes hidden behind tinted goggles. He was not free.

After: The Winter Soldier did not speak. Not until Steve called for Bucky, until the Soldier was frantic with confusion and anxiety and pain.

After: The Winter Soldier is silence incarnate. He doesn't speak unless needed. He makes no sound aside from the usual sounds of battle.

After: The Winter Soldier would kill for the completion of his mission. _Steve is alive because the Bucky in the Soldier did not kill family._

Steve sees Bucky in the way the Soldier moves, how he handles the knife and rifle are as known to Steve as Steve's own shield. The Soldier is not Bucky but Bucky lives inside the Soldier. Therefore HYDRA will perish at Steve's hands; a promise written in blood and carried on a turbulent storm raging in summer blue eyes. A promise re-made by the Captain and the Avengers silently agree that they will be right at his side as the back-up he will require.


	2. Interlude: Emma's Thoughts

Drabble piece two. This was originally going to be the beginning of the third chapter, an interlude chapter finally introducing the OUAT part of this crossover. However, I figured out a much better way of beginning Emma's part of the story. This little piece was too much of a jem to pass up though, so it joins the ranks of Drabbles.

I hope I've kept these two strong women within character. Let me know what you lovely readers think. Also for those who are keeping up with HLM (no not the computer coding term, the story) I've got the next chapter edited and ready for posting, It's a dozy too so be warned, those squeamish about torture and gore should skip the first portion of the chapter.

This is all for me, so please read and review!

Ja'ne

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Emma Swan does not trust Regina Mills, not with her tax dollars and certainly not with Henry, but even this odious woman does not deserves the death coming her way. Also, there is the fact that Regina raised Henry when Emma had been too cowardly and incapable herself. Points to her despite the kid's numerous psychological issues given in the process. Henry would be devastated to lose his other mother and so Regina would live if Emma has any say in the matter.

This fact alone is why Emma finds herself in Regina's monochrome (yet quite tasteful, and Emma is taking that thought to her grave) office, trusting that the woman has some way of making her insane plan work. _Henry isn't the only one going to need a therapist after this was over._ Emma hates talking about her problems, wishes to believe she doesn't have them and bottles everything inside until she _erupts_ because she can't ignore anymore. But...everything that was happening, is happening, is too much even for her iron coping mechanisms. Emma will admit just this once, that she needs someone to vent to, someone who understands, who won't judge her or kowtow to her because she's a...a _princess!_

Crystal ice eyes sparking with _madnessdesperation_ _understanding_ above a natural devilish smirk lingers in her mind. Tousled chocolate-brown hair over a forehead made just for brooding joins the mesmerizing eyes as Regina pulls out a leather case with the single most interesting shape Emma has seen to date. The case is old and battered, seen more years than Emma wishes to dwell on, and adds world-weary broad shoulders clothed in printed silk to the eyes and lips and hair and forehead in her mind. Shaped like a flower pot, Regina flips open the lid with a gentleness becoming of the aging leather hinges that groan and creak like old bones anyway and stops. Her dark eyes seek Emma's viridian, leery and questioning. There was a type of movement about Regina in that moment that strongly reminded Emma of a pet dog at one of the foster families she had lived with; he was beaten down almost as often as the children, broken in a way Emma feared would happen to her, and always cowered in a corner while snapping sharp fangs at anyone foolish enough to approach outside his terms.

"Did Henry really ask you to protect me?" her question is asked with a softness that Emma would never associate with the mayor, having only ever known Regina to be a hard woman with a diamond will.

Emma debates her answer. Regina truly gets on her nerves and that is not counting the anger Emma has in regards to the woman's treatment of Henry, still though...

Regina was Henry's mother for ten years.

Damn.

"Yes." is said with all the conviction of a woman not wanting to speak but knowing that staying silent would get things nowhere, so she is going to put every single drop of belief and truth into as few words as possible. In the end, Emma takes heart in being able to stun Regina since opportunities such as that are few and far between. The genuine smile looks pained, as if Regina was unused to smiling with true happiness. Emma recognizes that look, sees it in the mirror and every reflective surface she passes during her day. The latest revelation goes into the steel bunker with all the other new facts and truths Emma just doesn't have the time or _will_ to deal with in that moment.

With the moment passed, Regina pulls an equally old, battered top hat from the depths of the case. Emma notices that she holds it with a wary reverence, hands clasping strong and sure around the trunk like she would the reins of a high strung stallion, knowing that a steady hand is needed in checking the great power beneath her. Regina eyes the hat with a strange mixture of disgust and fascination, like a teenager presented with a hated dish from childhood yet now the smell is tantalizing and the idea of eating not so stomach turning. Then Emma registers the hat itself, the familiar top hat shape and pattern of fabric faded in places from a pure silk black to dusky charcoal grey. A dust rose ribbon, aged in a way that Emma almost can't believe is from years passing but rather a lack of, well...magic. Much like its true owner and if Emma wasn't in such shock seeing the original of the hat she had spent practically an entire night recreating under the directions of a not-so-mad mad man, she would be furious all over again because this was just more proof against Regina.

Emma is hit with a sudden desire to snatch the hat from Regina's hands and run back to Jefferson, to give him back the second missing piece of his soul because at that moment, no matter how much she wishes she could, Emma can't give him back his daughter. There is no denying now that the little girl he had watched (possibly obsessively) for twenty-eight years is his daughter, his Grace. Henry's book had confirmed Jefferson's story (and she wasn't denying the irony of the Mad Hatter being the only one to tell her the truth besides a ten year old and an old storybook) but Emma is a skeptic by experienced necessity and it takes a lot to make her believe something as unbelievable as a fairytale cursed town. A flesh and blood dragon certainly helped obliterate her disbelief.

"The Hat." Emma can't take her eyes away from Jefferson's possession; the whispered awe and disbelief flying free. Pricks of remembered pain flair in her fingertips. The soft slick feel of the silk ribbon, the rougher scratch of patterned velvet, the stiff wire framing that she had molded her hat around danced as a phantom sense against her hands. She doesn't look at Regina, does not wish to think of the implications regarding Jefferson's "Magic Hat" in her scheming hands.

"I'm sorry, what are you on about Miss Swan?"

"The Hat. That's Jefferson's Hat!" Emma is watching the woman like a starving hawk, nothing escaping her trained gaze including the quite noticeable pause.

"Excuse me, who?"

Every instinct in Emma is blaring World War Two air raid sirens: **LIAR!**


	3. Guest review reply and story adoptions

This is not a drabble for my Madness of Hope series, sorry folks. This is a reply to a guest who reviewed and 'hinted' at the probability of adopting my drabbles. (Guest Mary, I'm nodding at you.)

So to begin with, I'm super happy you enjoyed my little gems enough to want to adopt. I can compromise a little with this:

Firstly: My drabbles until otherwise stated are **NOT** up for adoption at this time. I may still end up using them in the story or at least parts of them so until they either do or I figure out otherwise, please future reviewers, do not ask if you can adopt them. Please. This doesn't mean you can't take any ideas inspired by these drabbles and write your own story. Just send me a PM with your finished product. I'd love to read and review in return. However, if I find out that my work has been used without my permission, I will unfortunately cite the author which I do not want to do. If the various authors of Star Wars can be civil and fair, so can we, my fellow Fan-Fictors.

Secondly: Never fear, I do have ideas available for adoption if you so choose. Again send me a PM with the idea you would like to adopt and I'll send you the ground rules for it. That being said here are some if the adoptable ideas. I'll most likely add as I live so keep a weather eye out. Maybe something will come along you'll want to give a try.

1) Primeval/ Hercules crossover

Connor Temple is more than he seems. He is not just some simple geek nerd who suddenly finds himself fighting dinosaurs in London. He is actually a god, currently humanized as a test of his character. The usual perks of godhood have been stripped from him save his inhuman strength. After an incident however, he keeps his strength under a very tight lock. Now he has to figure out what the anomalies are while also keeping his divine secret a, well, secret.

2) Primeval/Alice SYFY xover

This was an idea based on a..tumbler post I believe. Either way, as far as I know, know one has done something like this yet so here it is.

The relationship between Hatter and March goes a lot deeper than Alice realized, like, family-deep. March was once Hatter's twin brother, until the Red Queen got her Emotion Tea claws into him and drove him insane on Tea Overdose. Now Hatter has killed his brother, twice! Putting a strain on himself in guilt and on Alice. Or so he believes. In London, no longer a dimension but merely an ocean away, March is making a new name for himself, as he tries to figure out who he is now that the Teas no longer have him. Abby is just trying to figure out why her flatmate (and man she most certainly does NOT want to snog) has been falling into depressions more often lately. She might not want to know. But really, what kind of secrets could clumsy, dorky, sweet-tempered Connor Temple possibly have?

3)Inuyasha/Pocahontas

When a magical time traveling well is involved with demons, nothing is ever set in stone. So is it any surprise really that there is more to the Inu brothers history than even they knew? How does Kagome know Touga?! And why does Sesshoumaru secretly feel simultaneously safe and like there is something missing whenever he encounters his half-brother's priestess?

4)Avengers/Pocahontas

This one is also an art challange. Listen to Savages prt. 2 and imagine a female Tony as Pocahontas. Who on earth could she possibly be singing to? ;D

This one I don't quite have a story summary for other than a fem!Tony with Bucky Barnes pairing. If you would like more parameters let me know through a PM and I'll tell you the ideas I had been kicking around.

5) Danny Phantom

This one I really don't care how you go about doing it but I would love to see someone do a story where in order to defeat Dan Phantom, Danny has to fuse with him, much like how Dan came to be in the alternate reality. Again there are a few rules for this story but they are negotiable.

So, thank you again Guest Mary for your review. If you don't have an account I recommend getting one. It makes keeping up with your favorite stories easier ;) And if you want to adopt any of these prompt/challenge ideas, it would be a lot easier to give you the rules for them.

Alright, that's all I got for now.

Ja'ne!


	4. Azzano, first draft

To my wonderful lovely readers! I have some news. No, the story isn't dead, just a difficult child at times. Also, its the holidays if the many commercials and blatant advertisement since September wasn't a clue. This means my family and therefore myself are busy busy little bees so updates may be a little longer in coming than my promised three weeks. I do plan to have the next chapter out by at least Christmas though (and if I can swing it, a little Christmas treat as well in apology if I don't make my pre-designated deadline. Anyway, I wrote this like two-four months ago? While watching the deleted Bucky scene which they should have kept in! I was going to use this originally as the starting bit of the next chapter of HLM however, I have since gained a few new ideas that better start the ball rolling. Or they would if I didn't draw blanks in how to write down what I'm seeing film wise in my head! Ugh, I hate writers block, even a minor case.

So since I wrote this piece months ago and never finished to the end of the scene, just watch the scene itself on Youtube if you need a visual reference. So yes, the ending is abrupt. I'm too lazy to finish something that's not even making it into the final cut. Sue me. This little area is where I put the ideas that began but never make the end as I've said in the past. Any flames about the ending being abrupt, 1) I've just given you the reason for that and 2) those flames will be used to thaw my frozen brain. Winter is too cold for my poor body, the Soldiers that come from Winter though? MM MMM Spicy HOT!

I might use some of these sentences, I might not. Haven't decided yet.

As always, Your humble Author.

Ja'ne!

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Azzano is Hell on Earth, in Bucky's (quite possibly biased...Oh, who is he fooling; this is entirely biased) opinion. Of course, Bucky thought this of every battle he had been in this past six months. Everything seemed so much longer than a month but that was War Time, where battles lasted eternities and down-time passed in a frantic blink. Oh, how Bucky loathed War. Didn't matter that he is at his most physically fit and healthier (not counting various scrapes and bruises from too close calls) than he has ever been. Just one wrong misstep could result in a hidden mine blowing you to meet your Maker. At least then you could sleep for more than five minutes without another air raid siren going off.

His mother would just love the battle humor he is picking up.

Well, plenty of mines are detonating around him now, either set off by the rushing steps of his fellow soldiers- _how many did he know? Was that body flying over his shoulder a comrade he had slept next to in a trench, or that leg, did it belong to the man he had been eating breakfast with just that morning?_ -or the artillery fire from their Nazi opponents. Either way, Bucky could barely hear himself think over the constant explosions let alone have the time to mourn over men he may or may not have known. All there is ever time for during a battle is surviving the next confrontation and making sure the men under him survived as well.

Easier said than done.

Bucky turned around and came face to face with the rest of his team. He allowed himself a moment to breath in relief. Timothy Dugan and Gabriel Jones were okay; covered in dirty and other questionable substances, but there was no bloody wounds, no missing body parts which Bucky counted as a plus. The two older men may have come from different companies and Dugan shared the same rank as Bucky himself, but for some reason known only to Colonel Phillips, they had been placed under Bucky's command which meant that Bucky was going to do everything in his power to make sure they survived this damnable War.

"There's at least five more squadrons out there."

"Where is that back up from Squadron B? Have you been able to call this in?!"

Bucky held in the curses begging to fly out at the sight of the destroyed communications equipment Jones held up.

"Be a mite difficult, Sarge."


	5. HLM Original Prologue

**By request and by authorial** **decision, here is the original version of the prologue for my story Hope's Lingering Madness. I'll be including the originals for any chapter that has a change in the middle or a complete change. Any changes at the beginning or the end are in italics. Enjoy the first fruit of this labor! **

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**PROLOGUE : THERE I WAS ONCE, HERE I AM NOW**

Here I am, This is me

I come into this world so wild and free

Here I am, So young and strong

Right here in the place where I belong

It's a new world

It's a new start

It's alive with the beating of a young heart

It's a new day, In a new land

And it's waiting for me

Here I am

 **HERE I AM – BRYAN ADAMS**

The following tale begins as such tales must, with a once upon a time in a land without magic. Yet this land is saturated in belief that truly, the land _is_ magic indeed, merely more of a power unknown and unrealized in its potential. The heroine Emma Swan seeks out her lost friend, Mary-Margaret Blanchard, in the cursed sleepy town of Storybrooke, Maine. If the murder charges are to be dropped _legally_ , Mary-Margaret must be in her cell before eight A.M. Emma is running out of time.

But...you already know this tale and how it ends with a mad, lonely hatter clawing desperately for any chance to reunite with his daughter and falling falling falling short, tumbling out the window. What you do not know and what will not be realized until decades have passed is the ending you thought was truth was only a portion of the tale, for Emma is the hero with a quest unfinished. The broken Hatter is a side story in that tragedy, naught but a small blip on her valiant battleground. His story, however, is not yet finished. No, Jefferson's tale is _finally_ beginning. This is how it starts.

In the split second between Mary-Margaret kicking Jefferson through the window to the ground two stories below, Emma believed with her entire soul, that magic was real and that somehow this lonely broken man with the desperate eyes of a father would survive the fall. Her belief was enough to activate the dormant magic flowing through the stitches and fabric her fingers had become so intimate with, but magic is unpredictable in this land fueled by belief and Emma is untrained in magic of any kind. The result is an unstable swirling vortex of time and space that Jefferson was not coherent enough to control, to guide the hat magic safely, disoriented from the blow Emma had given to his head with the telescope and the subsequent fight between him, Emma, and Mary-Margaret. Strong as Jefferson was, brass telescopes to the head will result in a concussion and traveling bodily through a window not ten minutes later after being punched and a croquet mallet to the back does not help in any form. Down into time he tumbled, his body tossed and torn in the winds, unraveled and unmade, until it was spat reborn onto the hard packed dirt of an abandoned lot.

A sound not unlike a gunshot shattered the silence of an abandoned lot. Had a passerby noticed the sound and looked within, the most unusual storm cloud would have appeared before their eyes; a storm of roiling wine purple clouds funneled upwards in a spiraling twister, kicking about dust and flora ripped from the ground. As suddenly as it came, however, the funnel just as swiftly disappeared, collapsing in on itself and leaving behind a tiny pale form amongst the settling debris.

For several long moments, the form neither moved nor made a sound to indicate life. A rapidly cooling night breeze wafted through the lot, stirring the grass and flowering weeds into dancing against naked skin. Coal black lashes curled and fluttered against lily skin, brief glimpses of blue ice play peek-a-boo with the outside world as the owner of such chilling oculars struggles to waken. Tiny fists rubbed and batted at the tickling sensation caused by unruly dark chocolate locks while soft whimpers escaped into the quiet air. Finally the last of the Sandman's hold rubbed away, leaving woken clarity behind. The small form slowly pushed itself upright, revealing a child of three or four years in age and as naked as the day of its birth. Swiveling slowly, ice blue eyes took in the surroundings, drinking in the growing darkness and the worn abandoned brick buildings on three sides. Goose flesh rose swiftly as the spring breeze persisted causing the small child to wrap thin arms around its torso for warmth. The effort wasn't enough and as fear began to settle in with the reaching shadows, the whimpers grew stronger and louder until wailing sobs echoed lonely through the lot accompanied only by the moaning wind.

Winifred Barnes did not normally walk this route home; then again, normally she had her strong new husband to escort her from her job at the local nursery. As this was not a normal day with her husband George being asked to work another shift and with money being tight this week due to a hospital visit earlier, taking a cab home was out of the question. So, being a Brooklyn born and bred woman, Winifred walked the familiar back alley streets of her childhood neighborhood, feeling a tad nostalgic with the news of the test results from said hospital visit. A child. She was pregnant already, after having only been married a few short months. George and she had not even had much of a chance to discuss children beyond that yes, they both wanted to be parents. Was six months after marriage to soon? Would she be a good mother, like her own had been? Could they even afford a child now when they still had payments from the wedding, not to mention the bills for their small apartment. Sure, both of them were working but eventually Winifred would have to quit in order to prepare for the baby and then raise it once the child was born.

Her fears clung and built, despite knowing that George would be ecstatic to learn of his impending fatherhood. Winifred knew that his lips would form reassurance while his own logical mind would spout her same fears and worries. What could they do? She wouldn't terminate the pregnancy, not because the act was frowned upon by society but because her own soul cried against such an act to an innocent soul. Children were precious gifts from God. Her fears may be swamping her logical mind, but perhaps, if she kept in mind that God had His hand in everything, she and George could make it through this unexpected blessing.

Resolve set, for the moment at least, Winifred begins walking with a renewed spring to her step, passing the lot her brother and friends used to play ball in as they grew up. At first she believed it was the wind crying through broken windows, but a strange movement from her peripheral caught her attention. Her feet are carrying her forward before her mind has registered the image.

A child. A toddler shivering and naked in the tall weeds, crying its-no, _his_ \- heart to pieces. Her own heart ached at the sight of such a young child abandoned. How anyone could be so – heartless as to abandon a child like this...Winifred could not imagine. The boy's lips were practically blue already! Moving softly and gently for she had no wish to startle the already terrified toddler, Winifred removed her coat and wrapped him in the warm cloth. Compassionate hazel met watery blue. There was so much intelligence in the boy's gaze, yet terror and sorrow tempered the sparkle that all children held. She could not leave him here. She would not! With the determination and compassion of a blooming young mother, Winifred Barnes gently scooped the boy into her arms and took him home to await her husband.

George Barnes expected to come home to his pretty young wife with a simple meal on the table and news regarding the hospital test results. He did not expect to see a waif of a child wrapped in Winifred's heirloom quilt sitting on the couch and staring into his soul with ancient eyes.

"Winni?!"

Winifred smoothed down her apron and mentally prepared herself to meet her love. The boy hadn't said anything in the few hours she had been with him, but he wasn't silent. He communicated with his eyes and hands, clinging to the jacket and Winifred herself while his old old old eyes took in everything around him as if for the first time. There was a quiet wonder in those blue eyes, a child's enthusiasm that she had feared was no where in this little boy who was already stealing her heart.

"George. Welcome home. How was your day?"

"Long. Mind explainin' why there is a little boy sittin' on our couch?" George wasn't angry, he could see how thin the child was and he knew his wife, knew that Winifred would never bring a stray child in unless there was no other option.

"I found him on my way home. He was all alone, abandoned in one of the old lots with no clothes or a blanket to keep him warm. George, he was crying! I couldn't leave him there to freeze to death."

George took his crying wife into his arms, rubbing soothing circles while his own green eyes locked with the curious blue of Winifred's little rescue.

"I know, Love. You wouldn't be the woman I married and love if you 'ad continued walkin'. I'll stop by the precinct tomorrow and ask around, see if maybe he was..." he couldn't say _kidnapped_ , because like his wife, George Barnes believed that all children were precious and the very idea turned his stomach. He pulled away from Winifred, planting a soft kiss on her before making his way over to the boy.

George kneeled on the hardwood floor before the couch, hands clasped over his knees as he searched Little Rescue's face. He drank in the dark chocolate curls that brushed against pale skin, the wise old eyes that met his gaze with trepidation, curiosity, and a steel resolve George respected. The World had delivered this little boy a harsh blow, but he was already getting back up.

"Ya got a name, Lil' Rescue?"

The young couple's hearts broke at the slow shake. If they ever found out who did this...it would not be pleasant.

"Well, I can't go 'round callin' ya Little Rescue all the time. It's more of a nickname than a proper name, so we will just have to pick somethin' out, yeah?"

"George...are you saying he can stay?"

George Barnes looked at the tentative smile blossoming across the boy's face then over at the hopeful beam in his wife.

"Yeah, he can stay." To say the kiss Winifred bestowed on her husband was toe curling was like saying the sky was blue and the universe revolved around the sun: a complete understatement. It promised many wonderful things for George in the future.

Looking from his wife to the child she had found, George couldn't help but see a complete picture. Maybe he was projecting his own wants and desires on the boy, because heaven knows George wanted a large family and so far it appeared that this tiny child had none to speak of, but he could see Winifred's loving heart hidden in the boy's eyes. Whatever the child would grow to be would be great, of that George held no doubt.

"So, now that we've established he's stayin', what are we going to call ya?" For a moment, the boy looked confused, as if he hadn't realized he was being addressed.

"What's you name, Sweetheart?" Winifred questioned gently, running a soft hand through the tangled curls of the boy's hair.

"N-na...name?" the croak in the stuttered word spoke of long hours screaming until the vocal chords were raw and almost incapable of making another sound. Winifred could weep anew from the implication.

"What do people call ya, Lil' Rescue?" George had to work against letting his anger show in his tone. For this precious boy's voice to sound as it did required countless hours of screaming at full volume, something he had only heard of in those experiencing great pain.

The boy's nose scrunched in thought, looking quite adorable in the couple's opinion, until the thoughtful look began to transform into one of fear.

"I-I...I dunno! No..no reme'er. I no rem'er!" tears began to pool and gather, tiny shoulders hitching with building sobs. Winifred and George moved onto the couch, arms circling and caging the distressed child.

"There, there, shh. It's alright."

"Just means ya get to pick yer own name, yeah?"

Eyes puffy red with snot just beginning to dribble from a button nose, hope began returning to the bright blue eyes the Barnes couple were swiftly falling in love with.

"How about Robert?" The emphatic shake was answer enough.

"Luke?" Another shake.

"What about James?" This time, the boy considered the name, before giving a slow nod. Grins spread across three faces.

"Welcome to our home, James."

George Barnes checked at the local precinct as he said he would for any reports regarding missing or kidnapped children. There was none, but the officer on duty promised to inform him if anything came up.

Nothing did; no calls, no worried family member seeking a little boy with curling untamed chocolate hair and haunted blue eyes. In a moment of fancy, George imagined the boy had appeared from thin air, like some sort of master magician just barely surviving his greatest trick. He knew it was a ridiculous notion, but one that was infinitely better than what was appearing to be the truth: of a child not much older than a infant babe left with no one to care whether he lived or died. As the months ticked by and Winifred's due date grew closer, George began to doubt there ever would be a call saying James' family had come for him. Not that he minded. James was a delightful child, intelligent and kind, strong yet gentle, everything George would have asked for in a son. Once James got past his shy reactions to Winifred and himself, it was almost difficult to stop the flow of questions. Winifred found James' inquisitive nature absolutely adorable.

Late at night, when the household was silent in sleep and George could hold his beloved wife while feeling the movement of their biological child moving in her womb, he prayed that James' family would never come. Even when George went to work exhausted and barely functioning from being kept up due to James suffering nightmares, the young man could not imagine giving up the little boy his wife had rescued all those months ago especially to a family that had abandoned him without a second thought. James had swiftly (and really without much struggle on the couple's part) wormed his way into their lives, their hearts, and their family. Neither of them could picture a future without the bright boy. They already considered James as theirs even after these few short months and having made the final wedding payments in the last month, they could afford to pay adoption fees if that was the direction James wished.

George and Winifred had discussed the options together and that was what they both wanted. Now they just needed to ask James himself.

November 6, 1921 saw the birth of Rebekah Juliette Barnes. Exhausted but deliriously happy to finally meet the child she had been baking, as it were (as far as James' questions were concerned, Winifred had a special oven inside her that only George and herself could operate but would result in a little playmate for the boy) Winifred Barnes gaze never shifted from the pink bundle in her arms. Until the bed shook with the force of James' leap up to get a better look at the 'baby pie'. George chuckled at the radical change from the once terrified and subdued child to this roiling ball of energy.

"Easy, Rescue. Gotta be gentle with her still. No rough housing until she's at least five and can throw a decent punch."

James froze, cerulean sky oculars locked on the baby in Winifred's arms. There was a soft almost contemplative expression on his face that belied his youth.

"Girls...are um are like uh baby trees. They grow uh stronger or littler um uh with life. So I..I'm going to help uh make Re..ruh...um Becky stronger. Girls need um need 'tecting, but um not smotherin'." James looked up at the two adults staring back a bit shell-shocked. For a three year old, that was surprisingly accurate.

"That...that's right, Sweetie. Since you are going to be Becky's big brother, it's your job to protect her and show her right from wrong."

"Think you can handle it, Rescue?"

With all the seriousness a three or four year old could possess, James nodded as he offered his hand to the tiny fingers grasping at air. His face lit up like a field of fireflies, smitten and entirely wrapped around little Rebekah's finger.

Four months later on March 10 of 1922, James Buchanan Barnes was no longer an orphan with no memory. Now he was a son with a mother and father, an older brother to a pretty baby sister. James still had no memory of his life before and the doctors George and Winifred had taken him to theorized he may never being as young as he is, but now, with a proper family that wanted him and loved him, he didn't feel quite so...lost. The feeling of home was a heady one, a feeling James was bound and determined to protect at all costs. He may be three, bordering four, but he wasn't stupid. There was a feeling deep in his gut that whispered of family being snatched away from him, once - _"You don't abandon family."_ \- and he never wanted to feel that soul deep loneliness again. So he'll hold tight to this family that was loving him and he would protect it with everything he had within.

No matter the cost.


	6. HLM Original Second Chapter

**The original of the second chapter. Added a scene and made some adjustments hence its placement here. If any of you lovely readers wish to let me know which version you prefer, I am not adverse to hearing your opinion!**

* * *

 **CHAPTER 2: I AM FREE, YOU CAN'T TAKE ME**

Got to fight another fight - I gotta run another night

Get it out - check it out

I'm on my way and I don't feel right

I gotta get me back - I can't be beat and that's a fact

It's OK - I'll find a way

You ain't gonna take me down no way

Don't judge a thing until you know what's inside it

Dont' push me - I'll fight it

Never gonna give in - never gonna give it up no

If you can't catch a wave then your'e never gonna ride

You can't come uninvited

Never gonna give in - never gonna give up no

You can't take me I'm free

 **YOU CAN'T TAKE ME – BRYAN ADAMS**

Bucky cares with intensity, loves with burning all-consuming passion, and is creatively vindictive when it comes to harm befalling those he calls family. He has no qualms with violence in the defense of his family. He actually takes great pleasure in causing pain to those who bring pain to his own. Therefore the smart idiots of Brooklyn learn quickly to identify those Bucky claims. Usually a few "manners sessions" with Bucky discourages further attempts and Steve is secretly (ever so slightly) appreciative of the decrease in back ally fights. _Steve may be a closet masochist but even he has his limits!_ Not all of Brooklyn's idiots are smart though and often times the imprint of Bucky's fist as a dark bruise on their face as well as a perfect replica of his boot on their backsides as he sends them on their way isn't enough to get the message across. That is when blood starts flowing in crimson trickles out of the black alleys of Brooklyn.

Steve has no idea what is going on in the underbelly of Brooklyn at first. Regrettably, it takes him a few weeks after he turns eighteen to notice that some of his more frequent bullies have suddenly begun to avoid him like he carries the Black Plague in his pocket. A few more days pass after that realization before he makes another connection: each and every one sported garish hospital bandages wrapped around their faces or hands or limped away as quickly as possible when they caught sight of Steve. Some of the bandages were pretty clean and still white; others had blotches of vermilion spreading like ink across the white.

All told: Steve is getting very, very worried.

However, Steve doesn't have the full puzzle until a few weeks after his mother's death. Walking back from the cemetery, Steve isn't entirely aware of his surroundings. The collision that sent him sprawling to the cracked sidewalk was inevitable, truly. Rubbing the back of his aching head, Steve looked up into the face of his accidental assailant. Terrence Thompson's weasel face stared at him with beady brown eyes and a satisfied sneer stretching thin lips across pointed teeth.

"Well, well, well. Look a' what the cat dragged 'ere. Itty bitty Rogers. Seems my day just gotta 'ole lot betta."

Steve raised his fists, his body falling almost naturally into the defensive stance Bucky had been drilling into him.

 _This is going to hurt._

Steve manages to drag himself back to his dreary apartment through years of practice ignoring pain and stubborn will power. Most of his injuries are normal, lacerations and contusions, but Thompson also managed to break his arm. Setting it himself is going to be no walk in the park and he can only pray it'll set right, but he can't afford hospital bills right now when he is still trying to pay off his mother's funeral expenses. Steve makes due as he always has, bandaging what he can reach and trying desperately not to jostle his arm too much. Perhaps its because of the pain (terrible at times to the point all he can hear is a rushing ringing sound) or simply the whimpers and groans he can't bite back, but Steve doesn't realize Bucky is there until he hears him.

" _ **What. The hell. Happened?"**_

Steve froze, gauze wrap suspended halfway around one of the larger lacerations. He could just make out Bucky's blank face in the cracked bathroom mirror. _Oh, sweet Merciful Mary! I forgot Bucky was coming over._ Steve winced at the quickly descending scowl on his best friend's face. _Yep. Mama Bear Buck is here. Ma, if you're watchin' over me right now, I could use a little help._

" ** _Explain. NOW."_**

Steve's Tough-Guy-Act (as Bucky frequently called Steve's stubborn attitude) never lasted very long against Bucky's own Stern-Mother- _You-Have-Two-Seconds-Young-Man_ -Mode. He always managed to find some way of wriggling the truth from Steve either through a look or by simple observation and quite accurate assumption. Bucky knew Steve to well. Steve's story of tripping down the stairs leading to his apartment was taken as well as he expected, by which he means not at all.

"Who was it? Steven, tell me who it was or I'm subjecting you to sister-duty and Ma Barnes for the length ah time it takes your arm to heal."

"Terrence Thompson. It was Terrence Thompson, but Buck, it's fine, okay. Don't get into this, please. This is my battle; let me fight it on my own terms." Steve isn't sure Bucky heard him which under normal circumstances would irritate Steve something fierce. However, there is a far off look inside those familiar ice eyes that brings to mind the darkest corner of an ally during the witching hour of the night or a forest on the night of no moon. Like a predator awakening, planning, taking in the scent of its prey and enjoying the terror it smells before taking the kill strike. Steve shivers gently. He really does not like that look in his soul brother's eyes.

Bucky says nothing more no matter what Steve does to get him to talk, merely helps Steve finish bandaging the cuts and setting the bone. When Steve tries to walk but almost collapse under the sudden weariness of his adrenalin crashing, Bucky is scoping him up, ignoring Steve's protests that he isn't a damsel in distress. However, this action is also familiar and the gentle rocking motion Bucky's stride provides sends Steve into a doze in the length of time it takes Bucky to cross to Steve's bedroom. Steve barely registers the bed creaking under his weight, the scratch of the rough sheets sliding across his clothes as Bucky tucks him in, the near silent whisper from his door before it clicks shut.

"Stay here, Steven. Thompson and I are just gonna have a little talk. Sleep. He won't be bothering anyone again."

Steve bolts upright at the sound of his front door closing. A bad move by the way his head is spinning but the way Bucky talked...

Nothing good was coming Thompson's way.

Steve's scramble for his boots and coat cost him precious time in finding Bucky, but he does and he almost wishes he hadn't.

Bucky isn't walking right. The normal saunter of his over-achieving best friend is gone, replaced with this rolling...primal grace. There isn't a sound coming from Buck's footsteps, not like normal where Bucky just seems to announce his presence before ever entering the room. He glides over the pavement, steps treading lightly over trash and loose stones. In between leaving Steve's apartment and now on the shadowed streets as twilight descends, Bucky has somehow managed to gain a patchwork trench-coat and a worn, battered top hat. Steve isn't sure where or why Bucky acquired those items, but they...fit Bucky, as if there had always been something missing from him and now, looking at his friend in a trench-coat and hat is much like seeing a completed sketch.

A sketch that Steve is becoming extremely wary of by the passing moment. The crack of a back-firing car diverts Steve's attention from following Bucky's path for a scant second, but that is all it takes for him to lose the ghost that Bucky has suddenly seemed to emulate. Steve hurries forward, head twisting in all directions as he searches for some sign that Bucky had passed this way.

His world twists and pain radiates from his arms as Steve finds himself yanked through the mouth of the ally he has been passing.

"Should have stayed home, Steven. Guess you'll have to keep up and see for yourself then."

Bucky is striding forward again, the trench-coat swirling around his legs and Steve is frozen in the spot, watching the body of his friend move deeper in. That wasn't Bucky's voice. Well, it was and wasn't. The tone was right, he could recognize it as Bucky, but the timbre is wrong and how he sounds words is wrong too. There's a different accent flavoring the vowels and consonants; the Brooklyn twang that had been there for as long as Steve had known him is gone. At first there seems to be no definable accent, but as he rewound the single sentence over in his head, Steve picked up a slight burr in the deeper tones, like a cat's warning growl that reverberates across and through the skin until it's rattling the bones. Whoever this thing is that is wearing his best friend's face is madder than a whole box of wet cats and Steve is not about to let his friend be framed for murder.

Steve follows, sticking to the shadows as he has been this whole time until he reaches the middle of the ally and subsequently the darkest part in the fast approaching night. That is where Not-Bucky signals him to stay and where Steve watches as Not-Bucky leans against the onyx ink of second entrance of the ally, simply waiting. Steve isn't entirely sure how long they waited, whether it was minutes or hours later, but he personally didn't believe it was long enough when the familiar oily laugh of Thompson filtered through the air.

Smooth as you please, Not-Bucky stepped out of the ally, head down as if focusing on the path beneath his feet rather than the path in front, and clipped Thompson in passing. If Steve didn't know Bucky's strength, he would have believed that Bucky's slighter form clipping against Thompson's larger one really did send Bucky sprawling. He did know better, however, and with how this wasn't Steve's Bucky...

The implications of what was coming chilled Steve's blood.

Steve watched with the morbid fascination of seeing an oncoming train wreck as the next several seconds unfolded. Thompson hauled Bucky from the ground (five finger-sized bruises throb on Steve's arm in sympathy) laughing at Bucky's pitiful attempts at apologies, before sending his moll away with promises of catching up once he had taken care of the crust who dared wrinkle his good suit. It was going against everything Steve was and believed to stand in the shadows and do nothing to help. There are times though when Steve knew that he was more of a hindrance than a help and this, with a broken arm and body sore from its earlier beating, is one of those.

Not-Bucky stumbles back into the ally, Thompson's hands falling back from the hearty shove he had given. There is a predatory gleam in Thompon's eyes as he watches his prey collapse against the grimy brick wall.

"Yer even more pathetic than that loser Rogers was earlier. Gave 'im a real good lickin' when he failed to show me some respect. Just like I'm gonna show you. Maybe you'll scream just as pretty."

No matter how many times he replayed that moment in his head, Steve will never be able to pinpoint when Not-Bucky moved or when he suddenly gained the scissors now sticking out of Thompson's palm and pinning him to the same brick wall Not-Bucky had been panting against seconds ago. All Steve knew and would ever know is that Thompson's screams of agony are muffled by Not-Bucky's hand, that the blood rushing from around the blades is oil black in the low light of the alley, and there is a pleasant familiar half-smirk tugging at the face of his best friend.

"Get it out now. No one can hear ya...at least, not until I let them." Eventually Thompson's screams died to hiccuping sobs, but the smile never left Not-Bucky's face. If Steve was reading the expression right from the way Not-Bucky's head tilted and eyes fell to half mast, he would almost say that it grew in happiness the longer Thompson's screams held out.

This wasn't Bucky.

"Mmm. Better. Now we can have ourselves a little chat, about the conduct one should have around those I've claimed."

"W-who...are...you?"

Bucky never enjoyed torturing their bullies. He always said it only made them like those they fought against. Hypocritical.

"You can call me Buchanan. Though I've heard the rest of your slimy little Underworld friends have taken to calling me by a more...colorful moniker."

"M-Mad...Hatter."

"Yeu-P." The popped 'P' echoed loudly in the alley. Steve startled as did Thompson which only caused the scissor blades to dig further into the already mangled flesh of Thompson's hand. Before the scream escaped, Not-Bu – no, _Buchanan_ and that name really irked Steve because that was Bucky's name not this..thing masquerading as his best friend, pinched Thompson's lips together muffling the sound.

"Nope, not a peep. I'm not done with my lesson yet. Now, I recommend you keep very still, Thompson. Wouldn't want to put any more damage on your hand as there already is, now would we?"

Buchanan proceeded to bring forth another pair of scissors from the volumes of his coat. Thompson panicked, swinging wildly with his free hand. If he had been hoping to land another blow, the second pair of scissors imbedding the once free hand into the wall dissuaded such hope from flaring into flames.

From this angle, Steve couldn't see Buchanan's face but whatever expression he had was enough to keep Thompson from screaming in renewed pain, to petrified in terror to utter a sound.

"Shall I immobilize your legs as well, Thompson, or are we done with futile struggles and fancies of escape?"

Steve was disquieted at how pathetic Thompson had become in such a few short minutes. This truly wasn't his best friend anymore and it was breaking his heart to see what his friend had become.

"Bucky..." the whisper should not have reached the monster's ears, but he turned towards Steve as if he heard. Steve felt hope despite the fact that the eyes appeared the wrong color, like molten steel instead of the familiar playful ice. Buchanan was responding as if he was Bucky, which implied that...

Buchanan was Bucky, in some form or another. If this is the case, than maybe Steve could reach past Buchanan to Bucky.

"Please...stop."

Several tense moments passed, broken only by Thompson's whimpers.

"It appears to be your lucky day, Thompson. You're fate has been decided. But first-" again, his hands disappeared into some unseen pocket and produced a filleting knife alongside white thread.

"A little insurance against future acts."

Steve is horrified. He has never been squeamish about blood _-he's been in too many fights to be turned off by the sight_ \- and from experience he knows that head wounds bleed the most, but watching Buchanan carve Thompson's face...

The rivers of blood flowing down ashen skin was, turning Steve's stomach.

"Did you know that most ancient cultures believed the soul was contained in a person's blood and that, if certain rituals were done properly, one could control the very life and actions of the one the blood belongs. That's why ancient cultures were so superstitious. The right people, witches and sorcerers and shamans and the like, used that to their advantage. Give them a bit of blood or other body matter, they could control your very life. Piss off the wrong person, you could find yourself dead from mysterious means. Kiss up the right arses, you could find yourself extremely lucky." By this point, Thompson couldn't even scream without fear of the cuts on his cheeks splitting open. He was moaning something fierce however, and that irritated Buchanan if the hissed order to man up was any indication.

"I'm sure you've heard the tales circulating about me; how I practice dark magic, how I have people's souls sewn into my coat. You've dismissed them as untrue, I'd wager; the frightened ramblings of yellow-bellied cowards with no sense of reality." Buchanan wiped the blood stained knife on a clean portion of Thompson's clothes before taking the white thread from its place in his breast pocket. He unrolled several inches that he cut with the now clean knife. With all the finesse of a painter, he dipped and rolled the white thread until crimson liquid dripped from the string.

"Those stories..." He threaded a needle pulled from his hat before stitching Thompson's name onto his left sleeve. Once he was done, the wet blood spread into a dirt stain from the lettering. Then he met Thompson's terrified, agonized gaze. The grin Buchanan gave was wide and teeth filled, a predator satisfied at the end of a hunt.

"All true. Now I have your soul attached to my coat. Step out of line once and I will know, I will find you, and I will _destroy you_." Buchanan ripped the scissors from Thompson and the wall, turning away from the sobbing mess that was once a mob member.

"Feel free to scream now." Buchanan walked deeper into the ally, towards Steve. "A pleasure as always, Thompson. Whether we do this again or not is entirely up to you. Have a pleasant night."

Buchanan's grip was firm, not like Steve expected from this creature bearing his best friend's face, but more like Bucky's grip when Steve had managed to irritate him with another back alley fight. That familiarity kept Steve from fighting against the hold until they were once more at the entrance they had come through. Thompson's screams followed them.

"Bucky! Buck, stop!"

"My name, Steven, is Buchanan." There was irritation, but none of the bone chilling anger Steve had heard in Buchanan's interaction with Thompson.

"Then why do you respond to that name, the name of my best friend? Why do you have his face? Who are you if you aren't my Bucky?!" these questions had been burning inside Steve since he had first caught a glimpse of this...whatever he was. "Why did you do that?" that was the most burning question and one Steve regretted he could only force his voice to whisper.

A heavy sigh exhaled from Buchanan before he gently- _gently!_ \- turned Steve to face him.

"I am Buchanan and always have been Buchanan. Bucky is familiar though and so that is the reason for my responsive behavior." He is serious, Steve sees, as serious as Bucky during school tests and work days and when he has been tasked with a job of some kind or another. The gunmetal grey eyes have lighted back to recognizable blue yet still hard steel lingers in the corners.

"As for why?" There is a hand, firm and strong, on Steve's shoulder and he remembers that same grip from Bucky on the day of Mrs. Rogers' funeral. _Was it only a few short weeks ago?_ Whoever Buchanan is, he is also Steve's Bucky. These little gestures and actions proof enough. Though, if Steve had any doubt left, Buchanan's next words abolished any lingering.

"No one touches my family with intent to harm. _I won't allow them._ "

Steve believed him.

Not because of what he had just witnessed though that played a factor, but because it was such a Bucky-phrase that Steve would have believed Buchanan on that fact alone.

Bucky fought for family.

Bucky bled for family.

Bucky loved his family.

Now Steve knew: _Bucky would kill for family._

Yes, Bucky has nothing against violence in the defense of family virtue/honor/Steve. But outside of those conditions, Bucky is firmly a pacifist and will charm his way out of a fight if at all possible (Steve's friendship means this is a situation as rare as a blue moon). He sees what war and violence has done to families – _Steve confides once as they lay together on top of couch cushions, that he still hears his mother crying for his pa. Steve doesn't know how to make her feel better; it's not like he's perfectly healthy boy who can get better paying jobs to help with bills. Bucky doesn't comment on the embittered tone, merely hugs the small body closer. There is nothing either of them can do to bring back Joseph Rogers. "Just live, Stevie. She'll like that a lot more, I reckon." –_ and he prays that he will never have to go through a war like that. He doesn't want to fight a war.

The second world war enters America with all the concussive force of a missle strike. Pearl Harbor incites America into a righteous rage and Bucky is devastated when Steve to insist on joining the army. He tries to dissuade Steve – _Think about what happened to your pa, Stevie. What would your ma say about ya joinin' the army? Don't throw your life away!_ – but Steve is adamant and stubborn and he'll keep trying trying trying until he's arrested or some poor fool of a good Samaritan takes pity on Steve and allows him to join. Bucky knows this about Steve and the implications terrify him. He already has enough nightmares (memories) of Steve dying from some disease that Mrs. Rogers brought home with her from her job at the TB ward, sickly yellow and bloated from infection buildup or pasty white and skeletal from fever burning everything within. Now he has to contend with the idea of Steve's skinny chest blooming vermillion on some muddy battlefield in his nightmares. He _cannot_ lose Steve!

Then Bucky's draft letter comes and he wants to howl in agony, to curl under the covers and pray that the letter is a hallucination created through the poor plumbing. Steve listens in quiet seething jealousy as Bucky rants about the stupidity of war, of how he'll contend the draft and get out of it because his family still needs him _here_ not _there_! Never mind the fact that all but one of Bucky's sisters are married and have little ones of their own, they don't need Bucky.

Uncharitably, Steve thinks for a moment that Bucky is a coward for not wanting to lay down his life for his country. If Steve had Bucky's health, he'd be down at the recruitment office _yesterday._ Steve has no right to do anything less then all the others laying down their lives. Then Steve sees the genuine fear lurking the the pale blue eyes of his best friend and feels guilt. Bucky is a fighter but he doesn't desire the fight. He may sometimes revel in the bloodshed of those who foolishly threatened his family but a war is nightmares and darkness and monsters hidden as men. War irrevocably changes a man and Bucky is terrified of how he would change. Steve is a bit apprehensive on that front as well. Steve _knows_ what Bucky is capable of, knows that demons would run at the sight of a war-changed James Buchanan Barnes because already bullies run from a protective Bucky Barnes. But Bucky is _good_ to so maybe, the change won't be _bad_ (Steve tries to ignores the quiet whisper of _lying liar, it'll be so much worse than simply_ bad). Still, Steve is going to try with everything he has to get into the Army, even if it no longer is just about fighting a bigger bully than the ones in Brooklyn, because Bucky is going to need someone to bring him back from the dark void.

In between working as many hours as possible to pick up the slack from Bucky's pay, Steve makes it to four different recruiting offices in the time it takes for Bucky to go through Basic Training at Camp McCoy located in Wisconsin. It's hard going at first, not having Bucky there to make sure Steve's eating properly or taking his medication or to help bandage him after yet another fight. Steve adjusts though, and looks forward to mail days when Bucky would send letters home. Those letters bring a bit of sunshine back into the Barnes and Rogers households. Steve makes sure that Bucky gets a new sketch of his family with each letter returned, just so Bucky can rest easier at night knowing they are doing well.

Familiar familial camaraderie encompasses the two households on those normal days that have suddenly gained an almost sanctified meaning. Second Sunday best wear is chosen and donned; the better crockery placed on the table and money is splurged just a little bit for a better meal than typical; the extended families gather together and harmony rests among the members as Pa George reads Bucky's latest missive from training. They laugh freely at Bucky's caricatures of fellow trainees and harsh Commanders; snicker joyfully and roll eyes in fond exasperation at the tales of pranks Bucky manages to pull off in order to lighten just a little the tense stress filled atmosphere of the camp; Steve and Becky's husband have to hold Becky back at the small confessions of fear and anxiety over what Bucky is being trained to become. She would gladly have stormed the White House if it meant sparing her beloved brother the pain she could hear in his written tongue. Steve would storm its gates right beside her. Becky was as fearsome as any man when she had a cause to defend and nothing got her blood flowing quicker than any show of pain from her older brother and his best friend. Bucky and Steve were her heroes; she didn't need any shiny medals or pieces of fancy paper to tell her what her boys were already at heart. Becky just needed them living and breathing at her side, as they had since that first fight together.

She prays she'll recognize her Bucky Bear when the war is all said and done.

She fears she won't...

 _Because he won't have come home to her at all._

Bucky's letters are remiss outside of the bare bones when it comes to any special training he's doing. A passing remark about how his eye for detail and calculative mind have been noted in the way he trains in marksmanship. How the higher officials managed in some way to get a hold of a training regiment he had created on a whim and seemed to consider it good enough. Other trainees had talked of rumors flying around about a change in the sniper training program. He had no delusions that his little thought scribbles were even remotely good enough for something as big as an army wide change. He hadn't even edited it for grammar or triple checked his math! It was all theory and speculation mostly based on what he observed from their training reports. But there must have been something he was doing because he seemed to be rising in rank and he had no idea how to _stop_. The rest of the training, on the other hand, often leaves him in a state of exhaustion not even working a twelve hour shift at the docks could have given him.

A bight side is that the dames won't be able to leave him alone with how well a figure he cuts in the uniform. The whole family groans at their doll crazy member.

Then it's like Christmas and Easter and every birthday rolled into one when they get the letter that Bucky is coming home before he gets his orders and assignment. There is a frenzied manic energy about the various homes as the extended Barnes family prepares for what could quite possibly be their last chance with their loved one. Steve doesn't allow himself to intrude beyond one stop on the day Bucky returns to say hello on his way to work. The Barnes family need to have this time with Bucky more than Steve does. That does not mean he doesn't celebrate the return of his brother in his own way. After the fourth failed attempt to get into the army, Steve treats himself to a film, mostly to bolster his spirits after yet another rejection based on his ridiculously long list of ailments. He doesn't really pay much attention to what he picked, just that it's a new cartoon based on an old fairytale, something Buck and himself would have taken the girls to see when they were younger.

Not that he actually ends up watching the film. Nope, he much prefers taking disrespecting pills to the back ally of the theater and giving them manner classes. By the third punch, Steve has a split lip and his head is spinning. Maybe he should have thought the trashcan lid shield move better? The fourth punch sends him head first into the trashcan itself and now his ears are most certainly ringing. Yeah, Steve was somewhat content to lay there and it was easy to ignore the stench after all the practice he's had.

"HEY!" Steve jolted. He knew that voice! Knew it like he knew the sky was blue and the Earth rotated around the sun. The familiar protective growl that deepened the Brooklyn twang into something promising threats of further harm should actions continue caressed Steve's ears and urged him back up up up onto his feet.

"Pick on someone your own size."

Yep. That was Bucky alright. Somehow managing to protect Steve and pick on Steve's height without directly saying anything to Steve's face. Hands on his knees, shaking off the dizziness and trying to regulate his breathing back into normal range, Steve could just hear the punch-kick combo Bucky favored when dealing with the bullies that only had one or two strikes against them. Or were just not worth Bucky's time and energy.

Steve swore that Bucky somehow kept a log with pictures and names and transgressions of all the genius boys they fought. He certainly seemed to have a tailor made system in how each individual case was dealt with, at any rate.

"Ya know, sometimes I think you like getting punched."

Too busy wiping off debris and blood from his thin frame, Steve doesn't respond. This isn't the first time Bucky has tried to wriggle a confession of masochism from Steve. Not that he really needs the confirmation, it's fairly obvious in Steve's actions. Instead, Steve responds as usual;

"I had him on the ropes." and continues to wipe himself off, pressing a cold palm to his aching temple – _that will definitely bruise_ – only peripherally aware of Bucky bending down to pick up Steve's latest rejected enlistment form. The heavy sigh that follows Steve straitening upright he recognizes as Bucky's _why-are-you-torturing-youself-this-is-absolute-stupidity-Steve._

"So how many times is this?" Steve says nothing, knowing that the number alone would set Bucky off on another tirade. "Oh, so you're from Params now? Ya know it's illegal to lie on your enlistment form. Seriously, Jersey?" Yep. Not telling Bucky this was the fourth time. Though with how exasperated Bucky sounds, Steve has a pretty good guess what has been in Becky's letters about him.

Then Steve looks at Bucky for the first time.

He had seen Bucky when he first got back, but Steve hadn't stuck around, hadn't really paid much attention because it still _hurt_ that Bucky was fit and able and Steve _wasn't_ good enough. This is the first time actually registering Bucky's changes.

Bucky had always been fit, a hard life working as a manual laborer does that to a body's physique, but now he's trimmed and toned and fills the crisp lines of the uniform in a way that Steve understands _why_ Bucky had claimed that the dames wouldn't be able to stay away. That wasn't Bucky's usual jovial boast of sixty-five percent ego, twenty percent wishful thinking, and fifteen percent factual Steve and Bucky's family had originally assumed. If Steve felt see through next to Bucky before, now he's downright invisible. Not just because Bucky is practically at the peak of health, but because there is now a quiet confidence that pulls back the broader shoulders, a predatory lift to the head that can't be mistaken even as Bucky has to bend his head to meet Steve's eyes. Bucky would be beating the girls off with a stick (or the girls would over fighting to be with him) and if Steve wasn't too stunned to do much beyond stare at the reality slapping him in the face, he'd be laughing himself into an attack. His doll crazy best friend would be eaten alive if Bucky wasn't leaving...

"You get your orders?" it's the only explanation why he would have tracked Steve down while wearing his uniform. It seems impossible, and Steve can do nothing but stare in resigned jealousy as Bucky draws himself up, yet Bucky suddenly fills the ally way and yet takes up no room at all, larger and smaller with the release of a weary sigh.

"The 107th. Sergeant James Barnes shipping out for England first thing tomorrow."

Steve's run out of time and Bucky knows this and is resigned to his fate. The gravel quality to his voice is one Steve has only ever heard Bucky use when all other options have been spent and the last remaining one is the road through Hell. It's the voice Bucky uses when he's exhausted physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually and has been given no rest in months. Steve's heard it often enough when he's been sick enough to be hospitalized and Bucky stays with him, not sleeping, barely eating or keeping up his appearances as Bucky was wont to do for days until Steve is coherent and well enough to nag Bucky home. There is no right to be jealous of his best friend who is already living like a dead-man walking. Bucky's not a fighter, but America has made him one. A fearsome killer. Shattering an already broken man only to glue the pieces into something familiarly _Not-Bucky_.

Steve is furious and jealous and gut-wrenching devastated because this man before him is already a war-torn veteran without ever having to see a battle. Bucky should _not_ be fighting when he doesn't _want_ to fight anymore. Steve should be the one going to England because Steve wants to fight the bullies that are the Nazis and if he could, he'd make a deal with God if only to take Bucky's place.

"I should be going." _To protect you. To have your back like you've had mine. To pull you back when you get to deep._ Steve says none of this but he's sure Bucky hears him anyway. It's in the way Bucky nods his head ever so slightly. _Right back at ya, Punk. But I'm glad it's me, not you._ A lifetime wrapped in a moment and then Bucky is grinning like he used to as he pulls Steve into an affectionate headlock.

"C'mon, man. It's my last night!" There is laughter hidden in Bucky's voice and it lightens the aura around Bucky considerably. Then he's pulling back and shaking off his hand. Steve can see the wrinkle between Bucky's brows as his nose scrunches against the stench of garbage that now clings to Steve. If Bucky steps two feet to the left to give the illusion of still walking with him but staying out of the stench cloud, Steve wisely says nothing. "Gotta get you cleaned up."

Now...Steve's worried and suspicious. Bucky has that serious tone of voice he uses when he's only partially serious; the rest of it is pure mischief.

"Where are we goin'?"

"The future."

"I don't see what the problem is. You're about to be the only eligible man in New York. Ya know there's about three million women here."

The 1943 Stark Expo is bright with swirling colors, flashing with innovated designs that seem to be almost too fantastical to ever come true, pressing heat cooled by the evening breeze from the many bodies walking and looking on every display. Bucky wants to be soaking all this in, breathing the atmosphere deep into his lungs before gunpowder, blood, and charred meat overwhelm him. Instead, he's trying to lift up Steve's spirits from the slump he's fallen in to. Now admittedly, perhaps not the best topic of conversation to discuss with _Steve_ , but...

It's downright hilarious to watch him fluster and flutter his way through a conversation with a dame. Bucky and Becky both have enough on Steve to bleed him dry when he's being particularly obstinate. Setting Steve up on double dates was one of the two eldest Barnes children's favorite past-times in their teen and young adult years. Bucky figured that being his last night, he might as well get some of his own amusement in to look back on later.

"I'd settle for just one." Bucky truly wished he had more time to work on Steve's confidence levels with dames, because while Steve could draw an almost perfect replica from memory and fearless charge into battle no sweat, women are basically on another planet in regards to Steve's talents with them. Vocally, Bucky blames Becky for Steve's blunt tactics and stuttering fumbles. Secretly, Bucky knows the reason for his brother's lack in this area stems not from Steve or Becky but from the shallow natures of the women in their hometown. So far, none of the double dates has yielded a woman that could look beyond Steve's physical stature to the kind soul within. Bucky holds onto the hope though, because he doesn't want to go into this war with no idea if Steve will be taken care of and loved like he deserves. For now though, Bucky gives a charming half-smirk and waves to catch the attention of the two girls he had asked out tonight.

"Good thing I took care of that for ya."

"What d'ya tell her about me?" Steve was definitely annoyed. Bucky congratulated himself on not cackling like a madman in the wake of Steve's exasperation. Sometimes Bucky wondered if Steve realized that the way he reacted to this was what made Bucky and Becky keep setting him up. Steve's reactions are just too funny!

"Only the good stuff." Truly, Bucky should get a medal or something for keeping it together!

Once introductions had been made between Steve and the girls, the group of four meandered through the Expo. Some exhibits illicit sounds of awe, others have the group in stitches from how absurd the concept shown is (cool, but absurd) and Bucky is glad he was able to drag his best friend to this even if advancing technology wasn't exactly Steve's cup of tea. Sure, he'd be amazed by what was shown just like anyone else would, but Bucky knew that Steve didn't have the same desire as Bucky to take it apart and see how it worked before putting it all back together again, to once more _get it to work ._

A familiar flare of pain throbbed behind his eyes. The flash headaches had been occurring a lot more frequently since his Basic Training days, but usually food dulled the effects. It was past dinner time anyway so Bucky felt no shame in suggesting they grab a snack from one of the many venders scattered around. His dame of the night had no qualms in sharing the salted nuts with him, but Steve's girl...

Bucky never liked speaking ill of women. Lord only knows his mother was a force to be reckoned with and his sisters definitely had their mother's spirit. However, this girl was trying his already frayed patience with every snub and look of thinly veiled disgust she directed at Steve. Something clamored in the back of his mind to show the little twist exactly who she's dealing with but Bucky ignores it as he has been since he first 'heard' the voice during his marksman training. He'll sic Becky on her later.

For now, he's being dragged along by his dame towards the stage as the announcer has claimed Howard Stark will now be presenting. Bucky laughs and holds onto his cap because this reaction is so typical of dames nowadays. Stark is as big as any actor, rich as one too, and the man knows how the populace reacts to him. Yes, the man was a genius, Bucky would give him that, but he seemed more the type to use and leave dames than actually respecting women. As an older brother to three lovely sisters, Bucky had a slight (massive) complex when it came to regular Joes and his sisters. Becky's and Chrissy's fellas had a hell of a time convincing Bucky of their honest intentions. Bucky is pretty sure the grilling he gave them has become a horror story to warn young suitors about the Barnes Sisters (he's hoping it will eventually spread to be a warning against maltreatment of any dame). He made sure to give them a how-to manual for when Lizzie started bringing beaus around. Steve had tried comparing Bucky to Stark _once_ and Bucky had not taken it well. Steve never brought up the comparison again; going through an hour and half long rant once was good enough to get the point across. Bucky treated dames with respect; his mother would have his head otherwise.

Stark's showmanship is spot on, if a little bit too showboat for Bucky's taste. Flying cars is a keen theory, but Bucky doesn't see how it would be any safer than driving with four wheels on the road. Stark just wanted to be known as the man who created the impossible, Bucky figured, and airplanes and electricity have already been invented. Now, if Stark could figure out a way for man to fly without a plane? Bucky would blow his wig and forever sing his praises.

Honestly, Bucky doesn't expect the car to get off the ground. The fact that it gets at least a foot up is surprising, so being the good sportsman Bucky likes to believe he is...

"Holy cow." sums up the situation pretty well.

Then the repulsors are sparking and the car is crashing back to earth. Well, the world is right once more in Bucky's eyes. A few years Bucky thinks is overly generous especially with the war. Maybe in a few decades...or centuries. He looks at Steve with a laugh, knowing that the reason for his humor will be lost but Bucky doesn't really care.

He turns back to the stage, applauding alongside everyone else because Stark had still put on a good show and recovered from the embarrassment with aplomb. The day has been good so far and the night should end on an even better note with dancing.

"Hey Steve, what say we treat these girls to-"

He's gone. Steve. Is. GONE. Bucky is seriously considering putting the punk on a leash... AFTER HE KILLS THE LITTLE TWIT! _Steve's worse than Houdini's rabbit!_ Barely suppressing the growl that _desperately_ wants to escape, Bucky begins to search the surroundings. He ignores the girls clamoring for his attention beyond giving them some vague noise that he hopes means patience. The disadvantage of Steve being so short is that he is easily lost in crowds this large. Instead for instances such as this, Bucky has to think like Steve.

 _THERE!_

I WANT YOU FOR THE AMERICAN ARMY

Of-fudging-course. The Expo's recruitment office. Because one rejection a day just isn't enough. Long strides eat up the distance, military training helpfully dodging the masses, though the girls are left in Bucky's metaphorical dust.

Bucky finds Steve standing before one of those reflective mirrors that shows your face in the image when you stand on the trigger. The hilarity of seeing Steve's forehead even with the uniform collar manages to dissipate most of the anger; the rest simmers like hot coals.

His anger isn't low enough to keep him from shoving Steve's shoulder to gain attention.

"C'mon man, you're kinda missin' the whole point of a double date. We're takin' the girls dancin'!"

"You go ahead. I'll catch up."

Oh. OHO NO. Bucky hasn't said anything out of respect for Steve's pride (and because of distance with the Basic Training) but now he is not going to be silent. Bucky has let this go on long enough because he thought Steve was smarter than this. Stronger than this; to keep trying over and over again with the risk of getting caught rising higher with each attempt. But Steve is above all else stubborn and strong-willed. If Steve can't find a way, no one would. That is what scares Bucky.

"You're really going to do this again?" Bucky pours every ounce of exasperation and anger into his voice. The raw power he felt in this moment deepened his accent, the harsh Brooklyn vowels pounding from his lips like artillery fire.

"Well, it's a fair. Figured I'd try my luck."

"As who? Steve from Ohio. They'll catch you, worse they'll actually take you!" _Can't you see, Stevie!? It's not worth it; war is never worth the lives it demands. I can't lose you to this war!_ Steve isn't listening. Bucky can tell by the set of his jaw and the way Steve's summer sky eyes meet him head on.

"Look, I know you don't think I can-"

"This isn't a back ally fight! This is a war!" _The war will take and take and take take take until everything has been spent. There will be nothing left. War will take you too! Just STOP!_ Bucky is yelling, nigh on shouting, he knows he is because people are turning to stare but the politeness of the forties holds true and they continue on their way. He doesn't care. Steve needs to hear this, come hell or high-water, and Bucky is going to make sure he damn well does!

"I know this is a war."

"Look, why are you so keen to fight?! There are so many other important jobs." _You're my brother! My family! You don't abandon family and that's what you will be doing if you keep trying!_ He doesn't understand Steve sometimes. The kid has a death wish, with how often he goes around picking fights. What is driving Steve, besides a stupid inflated sense of

"What do you want me to do? Collect scrap metal in my little red wagon?"

"YES!" _SAFE! SAFE! SAFER! YOU WOULD BE SAFE!_

"I'm not going to sit in an factory-"

"Why not?!There are so many factories-" _LISTEN! LISTEN TO ME!_ Bucky wouldn't be able to handle Steve stained in red. He barely tolerated red fabric on his mother, sisters, and nieces. If it was blood...

"Bucky. BUCKY! C'mon! There are men laying down their lives. I got no right to do any less than them. That's what you don't understand. This isn't about me."

Bucky froze. He didn't understand?! _Off with his head_ whisper echoes under the rage. Because he doesn't want to fight, Steve thinks he doesn't understand? Bucky feels...lost; adrift in this sea of anger and indignation and shock. **Betrayed.**

"Right. Cause you've got nothin' to prove." He has been trained as a sniper, a long distance killer, able to make the impossible shot to end his enemy's life. He holds nothing back, his words the kill shot he knows will penetrate deepest. The brain _(bang),_ the jugular _(bang),_ the heart ( _bang)_ , the lungs ( _bang bang)._ No mercy. Spare nothing. Regret kills. _Your consequences, Steve, will be yours to face. I'm done._

"Hey Sarge?! Are we going dancing?"

"YES WE ARE!" Even Bucky can feel how fake his smile is, unsure how the girls don't see the false wrong he's exuding. He'll put up a strong front because he promised the girls a fun night of dancing, but his last free night is ruined now. Bucky feels old, world weary and torn apart, and he doesn't know why sometimes. Finding Steve has made things easier but times like this, when Steve's stubbornness clashes with Bucky's strong-will, his soul feels centuries older.

Steve is quiet and stands firm. The punk will never back down once he's set on his path. Bucky has always admired that tenacious spirit, always will. Once Steve gives his loyalty, its for life. Which is why Bucky turns back to face his best friend because he is angry now - _so angry he feels as if one wrong move will cause the flames within to burst from his skin and incinerate to ash ash ash everything before him-_ but he still loves Steve. Loves the punk that can make life difficult and wonderful at the same time so Bucky can't in good conscious leave for a war that has more of a chance of taking him from the living than Stark's idea of a flying car has a chance of becoming reality. Not without saying good-bye, even if this is not how he imagined this would go.

"Don't do anything stupid until I get back." This is an absurd demand based solely on Steve's luck and personality. He believes it is a universal law that Steve will always do something incredibly stupid. Bucky merely prays that he will always be there to guard Steve's back when the idiotic choices occur. Heaven knows someone has to, might as well be Bucky.

"How can I? Taking all the stupid with you."

Yep, Steve might look angelic but Bucky has yet to meet anyone with a smarter mouth, discluding his sister Becky.

"You're a punk."

The hug is strong and needed, just enough pressure to Steve's fragile form to convey everything Bucky won't say. _I'm still mad at ya, Punk, but I will love ya always. My brother, my family. Stay safe._

"Jerk"

Bucky turns away, leaving Steve to his fate.

"Be careful."

It's Steve's way of apologizing as well, without saying the words themselves. Bucky looks back to nod. He doesn't intend to die, hardly anyone does, but war as with life is unpredictable.

"Don't win the war 'till I get there."

Now that cause Bucky to stop. Facing Steve one last time, he slowly snaps a salute. Bucky has no expectations of winning the war anytime soon nor does he expect to still be alive to see the end of it, but Steve is strangely both optimistic and pessimistic in this instance. Steve is optimistic in that he will get accepted before the war is over but pessimistic in knowing that it will likely never happen. Bucky hears this and acknowledges his friend's desire and dream. He doesn't expect Steve to get into the army either.

"C'mon girls, they're playing our song." With his hand holding onto his dame of the night, Bucky walks both girls to the nearest dance hall. He doesn't see his skinny punk brother again.


End file.
